Genderbent
by rayningnight
Summary: He'd finally died. And joy, instead of being sent to the afterlife, Harry was sent to an alternate reality. With another Harry Potter around. Except it wasn't Harry Potter — apparently it was Harriet Potter — and every other gender-bent magical folk from 'his' world. …Why do the Fates hate him so? Harry-centric. GEN. Time/Dimension Travel.
1. Chapter I

—**Genderbent—**  
_by rayningnight_

* * *

**Disclaimers: Main concept is the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury and Warner Bros.**_** Not Mine**_**.**

**Summary:** He'd finally died. And joy, instead of being sent to the afterlife, Harry got sent to an alternate reality. With another Harry Potter around. Except it wasn't Harry Potter — apparently it was _Harriet_ Potter — and every other gender-bent magical folk from 'his' world. …Why do the Fates hate him so? Harry-centric. GEN. Time/Dimension Travel.

**General Warnings**: Harry-centric. _Past_ canon-pairings. GEN. May contain violence, some coarse language (not really, but just in case). Time/Dimension Travel (with as a bit of CU-compliance in plot) — so SPOILERS for all books. Some stuff's going to be a parody of canon!verse.

* * *

—**Chapter I—**

* * *

It'd been a good minute before he understood that, no, he didn't cross on into his _Next Great Adventure_ because no heaven or hell could possibly be some small, empty alleyway squashed between a towering skyscraper and a four-star Muggle hotel.

Simply put, if he'd been _upstairs_, he couldn't fathom angels and the like being mean enough to dump him here; and if he'd been _down there_, they'd probably have had some better form of torture than the typical fuzziness, lingering aftertaste and bad breath that normally accompanied someone who'd just awoken. Yeah. Nothing normal like waking up in some dark alley with no memory of what happened the night before.

Because, of course, Harry James Potter was _perfectly_ normal.

That said, Harry wondered exactly where he'd been left this time. He'd been sent by Portkey into a graveyard for his death by a demented megalomaniac Dark Lord, he'd been thrown into some less-than-legal Dark workshop courtesy of Draco's closet, and there was that other time he _accidentally _combusted in one of his Auror missions to the middle of Hong Kong in some Out-of-Order Floo…

Harry sighed and supposed, on the bright side, no matter where he was, he still had his necessities in his emergency rucksack he kept in non-space (…that seemed to be used far too often for his tastes). Summoning it, he tried to recall what kind of food he'd put in last time, if there was enough drinkable water, maybe some extra clothing—

He froze, eyes widening before narrowing in green fury.

_How in Merlin's hallowed name did _all _the_ Deathly Hallows _get in here?!_

Harry remembered, quite vividly, how he'd hurled the wretched Resurrection Stone into the Forbidden Forest, confident that it'd been disposed of from the eyes and hands of magical folk for good. Then there was him snapping the thrice-damned Elder Wand back at the bridge before the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry at the ending of the Second War with his best mates as eyewitnesses. And though he hadn't gotten rid of the Invisibility Cloak, he swore tucking that family heirloom away in his Gringotts Bank vault, never to see daylight again.

Until now.

Harry lifted the transparent, liquid-like cloth from his backpack before he stilled once more with an internal explosion of profanities.

His hands.

_What the bloody, flying Snitch happened to his hands?_

They were tiny. Scrawny little twigs of thin bone and tanned skin, cleaned immaculately of scars and calluses alike. They were instead replaced with blemish-free, boyish hands like — like — like some sort of _pianist._

He played piano as well as the next Hungarian Horntail.

With a half-hearted sigh, he stuffed his Invisibly Cloak into his knapsack and hoisted it over his shoulder once standing. He noted the physical difference immediately and wondered if he could find some sort of reflective surface soon, because from what he could tell, he was not only scraggier and scrawnier, he was also younger.

Because no human body in their middle age, no matter how fit, could ever feel — for lack of a better term — _young _again. If one was a wizard, it was less noticeable, because they aged slower, but once you hit a certain point…

He stepped out of the alley and onto the highway streets, instantly narrowing onto the glass window frame of some sort of Muggle law firm with seventy-something stories.

Well, that answered his questions.

The glass window reflected him as his fourteen-year-old self instead of someone a good two decades older. He had his owls' nest of inky black hair (not his usual cropped salt-and-pepper), his unnaturally bright green eyes (no lines or wrinkles under or above them), an olive skin tone with more golden quality than what he'd seen in the last decade — Hey, Head Aurors had more paperwork than people expect! — and Harry suddenly remembered he'd spent a good few hours outside on Aunt Petunia's garden and playing Quidditch before the Second War had hit him hard at the Riddle Cemetery.

"You lost, kid?"

Harry looked up — yes, _up_, because he was bloody fourteen and he remembered he was only just hitting his growth spurt at the time — and met a middle-aged, black man in a spiffy business suit holding a professional-looking suitcase with a curious, leashed dog beside him. He was probably wearing Armani or something equally extra expensive, just like the rest of those deskwork rich guys in the building to Harry's left, and just going for an walk before work.

He shook his head, both in dismay because of what 'bachelors' waste their money on these days — really, all those _top_ brands fell out of style so quickly, you'd find yourself buying another the next week and the next week and etcetera— and on the man's question.

"Nah. I'll just pop myself home soon. Thanks for asking though."

Harry stepped back into the empty alleyway once the Muggle left and Apparated home.

* * *

—**Genderbent**—

* * *

Harry then realized Apparating home wasn't such a great idea.

Especially, in hindsight, when he was fourteen and shouldn't really know how to do so in the first place; so, once landed, he quickly casted a Disillusionment spell. He hadn't made the notable _crack _like most wizardfolk, since he'd mastered that back in some backwater stealth mission for Hermione ages ago.

Oh, the hours he spent for his best friends…

It was a good thing he did too, however, because 'home' was currently an uninhabited acre of land with weeds and the stray Ghoul in the old, abandoned gardening shed.

There was also a too-perky saleswizard, clipboard in hand waving away a persistent dragonfly, trying to retail aforementioned property to a portly witch in her mid-fifties wearing atypical wizard attire.

Harry idly wondered if the Fates had sent him back in time, into another universe, or both, considering his wonderful luck and constant games with probability. Really, he wasn't actually too surprised with the circumstances. Annoyed, yes, but if one lived the life of a wizard, 'impossible' was not in your vocabulary, let alone your dictionary.

Still. After dying a rather… notable death, he wondered why _he _ended up with this curse of _not-dying _instead of Voldemort. Harry didn't even want to be immortal. Snakeface would be rightly angry if he ever found out about it.

Probably throw a Dark Lord-style hissy fit too.

With a sigh, he turned tail down from his ex-household and to the streets of Hogsmeade, into the marketplace to contemplate over a round of Madam Rosmerta's good ol' Butterbeer. A newspaper would probably be important too, informative and whatnot, so he added that to his mental to-do list.

Briefly thinking about his rather blasé attitude to this whole situation — he'd _died _for Merlin's sake, and ended up in his fourteen-year-old body instead of an incorporeal spirit — Harry tacked that onto "expecting the unexpected" (or in Mad-Eye Moody's terms:_"Constant vigilance!"_) or just the typical shock.

Probably neither.

Entering the warm, crowded, smoky, but somehow clean and welcoming Three Broomsticks Inn and tavern ground, Harry was hit with a surprising sense of normalcy. He'd thought it be, well, more _different _if he was back in time or in a different universe, but everything was practically the same, if the hostelry was fuller than the norm, louder, with some stray animals that managed to sneak into the trash.

The mirror behind the bar reflected the cosy atmosphere and alcoholic drinks, such as Butterbeer and Firewhiskey, served in tall glasses and in foaming pewter tankards. Gillywater, mulled mead, red currant rum, and even cherry syrup were passed here and there; Harry wondered if he'd any sickles left in his bag for one of the sodas with the ice spheres and cute little umbrellas in it and smiled as he rummaged through and managed to find a handful.

Iced sodas were one of his favourites, and that trait had been passed to his son.

So. If everything was the same, maybe it was _him _who was the problem. His 'death' may have sent him to some Muggle city, but maybe he was still in his universe and time, and all that's changed when he'd "died" was him de-aging so that his mortality would just keep resetting.

…_pfft…_

Fat chance that. There'd probably be more to it — he'd have enough run-ins with probability and luck, and it wasn't ever as it seemed.

Quickly heading for the bar corner, which was surprisingly empty, save for that small drunken woman in a ridiculous purple top hat and ferret scarf and the barista herself, who was at the moment wiping a Firewhiskey glass, Harry asked politely.

"Could I get one of your iced sodas, M—"

He cut himself off as he saw the one coming out of the shadows; not the voluptuous Madam Rosmerta, but some tall and rather muscular bloke stepping towards him in the Madam's signature rolled-up white shirt and some … some black trousers.

Harry took a breath of relief. Good thing, because that fellow in a black apron-dress would not be a sight for the eyes. At all. Well, unless you swung the other way.

"Who're you?" blurted Harry as his thoughts wandered too far, and then an immediate sense of mortification swept over him. Yeah, he's quite sure he won't be getting the Gentlewizard's Award this year in Witch's Weekly.

Or ever.

Did Witch's Weekly even exist?

Snapping away as Harry registered the middle-aged barista's laughter, he looked up from his thoughts. The large wizard didn't seem to care much about Harry's moment of Ron-like tact while rubbing out the tall glass in his hands with a dirty cloth and shooing off a black cat that got on the table. Harry remembered the feline jumping him at Ron's Bachelor's Party, and took a sigh of relief; at least some things, however insignificant, didn't change.

"I guess you're new here, lad. Though…" He placed the cup to the side table and scrutinized Harry, "I'd've _sworn _seeing you somewhere before," before letting up with a quirky smile, clapping his hand onto Harry's back. "Well, the patrons 'ere call me Mister Rosmerto."

Harry blinked. Twice.

Wha—?

"Yes, yes. The Mediwitch who oversaw me mam messed up in the tests and thought I were a girl!" He erupted out in laughter. "Rosmerta was supposed to be me name, but no, when I popped out, they were too used to calling the baby-in-the-belly 'Rosmerta' so ended up just changing a syllable."

Harry's eyes widened, exclaiming, "_You're_ Madam Rosmerta?"

"_Was. _Or would've been," Mister Rosmerto tapped his goatee, "whichever you prefer."

Harry, like any other wizard unfortunate enough for such circumstances to happen, was going through a mental breakdown. It didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened to him, especially when he could now see the similarities the top-hat witch he sat next to had towards a certain Dedalus Diggle, the first wizard to ever shake his hand.

"Um, Mister Rosmerto… do you happen to know the date?"

Mister Rosmerto blinked at the odd question, sweeping his hand across the too-boisterous pub. "Why, it's the Girl-Who-Lived's birthday o' course! The 31st of July — and the thirteenth year anniversary of her defeat of You-Know-Who!"

Yeah. He kind of expected that.

So it was perfectly logical for someone, even one who didn't have 'impossible' in their dictionary, to fain— err, black out.

He did _not _faint. That only happened to girls.

_And Harry Potter was not a girl._

* * *

**Author's Notes: **This plot-bunny was just _taunting _me to snatch it and showcase it. Dunno exactly where I'll be taking this though… 'specially when I've got this Pre-Cal test… Physics quizzes… and Chemistry homework… dang.

_**Post Script:**_ Not really a crack!fic but… uh, not all of the characters will be genderbent. _Majority_ will be. Not all. And remember, most names, though some may be pretty weird,_do_ exist. Somewhere. People can name their kids the _weirdest _things…


	2. Chapter II

—**Genderbent—**  
_by rayningnight_

* * *

**Disclaimers: Main concept is the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury and Warner Bros._ Not Mine_.**

**Summary:** He'd finally died. And joy, instead of being sent to the afterlife, Harry got sent to an alternate reality. With another Harry Potter around. Except it wasn't Harry Potter — apparently it was _Harriet_ Potter — and every other gender-bent magical folk from 'his' world. …Why do the Fates hate him so? Harry-centric. GEN. Time/Dimension Travel.

**General Warnings:** Harry-centric. _Past_ canon-pairings. GEN. Time/Dimension Travel. Partial-CU compliance. May contain violence and some coarse language. Viewer discretion is advised.

* * *

—**Chapter II—**

* * *

Her name was Harriet Potter.

…_Why _did his parents name him — err, the _other _him, who was technically _her_ (…Merlin, that was going to get confusing) — _Harriet _of all things? Couldn't they just leave the 'Harry' theme and name him —_her_ a flower or something? Like most girls? Like his _mother?_

Seriously, it was almost as bad as naming a girl _Elliott_ or _Porter _or _Sonny. _C'mon — that last one actually contained the word _son _in it. Didn't that speak for itself?

He was getting off tangent.

"—still want the iced soda?"

Harry nodded out of his thoughts and handed over two sickles while tucking the newspaper under his arm. Mister Rosmerto rung it up and handed him the icy, frothy drink and a couple of Knuts as change.

"Thanks," said Harry, taking a seat in one of the empty round tables with his mind in shambles and still whirling.

"No problem," answered Mister Rosmerto as another customer hailed him for something more spiced than blackcurrant rum.

Harry scanned over the pub thrice from habit before thinking over his present circumstances.

He'd finally died. And joy, instead of being sent to the afterlife, Harry got sent to an alternate reality. With another Harry Potter around. Except it wasn't Harry Potter — apparently it was _Harriet_ Potter — and every other gender-bent magical folk from 'his' world.

…Why do the Fates hate him so?

"Ah, Miss Potter! I didn't know you visited Hogsmeade during the summer! Are you alone? Oh, did you get a new haircu—"

Another presence dropped in the seat next to him and he finally looked up to familiar piercing yellow, hawk-curved eyes, which he'd seen hidden behind aviator goggles and refereeing during the last Slytherin-Hufflepuff match last summer. Spikey grey hair cut short, which made better sense since the witch was now a wizard, Madam Hooch — who was probably now _Mister_ or Sir Hooch or whatever — sat down in his typical white button-down collared shirt and black necktie with the Hogwarts crest under a familiar dark cloak. His face was suspiciously flushed.

He's eyes widened comically.

"Wait — you're — you're not Miss Potter!"

Well, at least he wasn't slurring. Harry quirked his left lip, but on the inside, he was screaming something quite profane that Mrs Weasley probably would've been washing his tongue for weeks. Both Mrs Weasleys. Them — and maybe Ginny if he'd been in front of the kids.

"Oh, no. I'm certainly not," he replied with his small smile that turned sour. "I could never live down the name Harriet considering..." He gestured his overall face and physique.

Mister Hooch blinked repeatedly in surprise before he exclaimed in an unnecessarily strident tone, "Well I'll be a leprechaun's uncle; you look exactly like Harriet Potter!"

Harry winced at the dawning looks of the patrons seated around them. He'd entered the Three Broomsticks with more than a few returning glances since most customers, like Mister Rosmerto, probably thought they'd seen him somewhere before… and considering the day… Harry withheld a sigh as conspicuous whispers streamed through the crowd like sharks over diffused blood; it seemed they all finally connected him to a certain famous someone, and were now treating him as if he were that particular celebrity.

Which he technically was.

...Hopefully he wasn't too out of practice.

"Um, who?" Either try for obvious or oblivious; that's what his own son used to say, "I'm not really from around here — and — err… well…" Oh Merlin's benevolent beard. Now all of them weren't even _trying_ to mask their stares. You could even hear the sloshing of the barman's drink distributor as the spigot missed its target.

The plan to say this to draw _less _attention was working _oh_-so-well.

It's a wonder how Ginny and he always caught Albus.

Mister Hooch finally clued into what he'd been trying for — surprising, but Harry supposed he wasn't as pissed as he'd thought — and with a contrite look sent over, the Hogwarts Quidditch Coach quickly pulled out his wand and put up a Notice-Me-Not charm and a few privacy spells, and soon the restaurant sounds of partying patrons resumed with slow murmurs and background laughter.

Mister Hooch smiled apologetically. "Sorry about that…?"

"Harry Potter," answered Harry before, again, he internally screeched a thousand rather colourful words at his impulsive stupidity. Gryffindor-ness. He hadn't made such a massive mistake since that incident with the Doxy and his enthusiastic intern-comrade just introduced to Muggle bubble-gum.

And that'd happened _years _ago.

"Potter? Wha—"

"Hey, just between you and me, could you tell me what a Muggle is? It's been popped in a few conversations since I came here. That and this 'Harriet Potter' gal. Care to elaborate?" Wow. That was _terrible. _Harry supposed the deskwork had blunted his speech, because he certainly hadn't spread out situations this thin before. Fleetingly, he wondered if Head Auror was a paperwork post meant to dumb down the supposedly 'most accomplished Auror' as much as possible.

But judging by Mister Hooch's gape, he counted himself lucky that the man was just a tad less than drunk.

"What? Are _you_ a Muggle? Wait — how in Merlin's name did you manage to even _get _to Hogsmeade?"

Oh yeah. Hogsmeade and Hogwarts were located in an 'undeterminable' place, probably a magical space-fold, somewhere in Scotland. The only way to _get _here was through the Hogwarts Express, Apparation or by Floo in a magical household.

Merlin, he was losing his touch. Words.

Whatever.

"There, again you say that! Muggle! I really can't answer your first question if I don't even know what a Muggle is," Harry desperately lied with faux-exasperation that probably wasn't half as convincing if his audience hadn't been as sloshed. "As for your second question, I usually come to Hogsmeade by Floo, like everybody else. Apparation, both kinds, is not exactly as pleasant." This time, neither was a lie; still, he didn't count points for himself on such a small accomplishment.

"Oh. So you _aren't _a Muggle. Ah ha!" exclaimed Mister Hooch, snapping his fingers somehow, even with gloves on, and going slightly cross-eyed briefly. "You must be one of the exchange students for the upcoming Tournament! They have a different word for 'Muggle,' yes? Which school are you from? Durmstrang? Beauxbatons? Oh, but why d'you have an English accent if…"

Harry cursed in his head as he smiled brightly with an oblivious tilt of his head. "Tournament? You know, Mister —" he quickly cut himself off, and a nano-second later continued, "I can't really answer any of your questions if you don't explain. That, and I still don't know your name!"

Mister Hooch eyes widened and Harry suspected his eyebrows rose under those goggles. "Ah! You're right!" With a crooked smile, he brought out a Quidditch-gloved hand. "Roland Hooch, at your service Mr Potter," he blinked furiously, and muttered, "and isn't that such a strange thing to say…"

"Why's that?" asked Harry, predicting the answer as he shook with Mister Hooch.

"Oh, yes. That. Err, where are you from again?" asked Mister Hooch uncertainly, retrieving his hands.

"I never said. But I probably won't be going back." With his luck, Harry wondered if he died — _again_ — in this world_, _if he'd be sent to the afterlife of the universe here, or to his own, or shipped off to another alternate reality altogether.

It brought on a rather depressing thought that, two out of three, he probably wouldn't ever see his family and friends again.

Or ever meet his real mother and father.

Quickly pushing his Occlumency defences over those thoughts, he quickly caught on as Mister Hooch spoke.

"—about your schooling?" inquired Mister Hooch.

"I'm not attending any sort of school," said Harry candidly.

"What?" Mister Hooch snapped, still red-faced yet more lucid than before.

"I'm not attending any sort of school," repeated Harry, cringing as the wizard suddenly straightened with a cry.

"But you're obviously no older than the legal age, Mr Potter!"

Harry tried to shrug it off, declining to answer with a noncommittal hum into his glass.

Mister Hooch suddenly had a determined glint to his once-hazy, hawk-like eyes, a glint that made Harry feel an odd pang of trepidation. It came along with a strange sense that he probably wouldn't be able to finish his soda drink.

"Then I suppose we'll have to fix that, Mr Potter."

* * *

—**Genderbent**—

* * *

Around another corner and the duo stopped before a large and extremely ugly stone gargoyle.

"Lemon drop!" said Mister Hooch. Harry briefly chuckled, mentally and wistfully, at the too-familiar password as the gargoyle sprang suddenly to life and hopped aside as the wall behind him split in two. It was the same as the first time he'd entered, filled with dread and amazement alike, just as in his second year.

Behind the wall was a spiral staircase that was moving smoothly upward, like an escalator. As he and Mister Hooch stepped onto it, Harry heard the wall thud closed behind them, and unlike before, he did not flinch or jump. They rose upward in circles, higher and higher, until at last, Harry saw the familiar, gleaming oak door ahead, with the clean brass knocker in the shape of a griffin.

Did that proclaim the Headmaster's bias, specifically for his own House? Or was it _just _a figurine?

Swallowing those thoughts, he took a few seconds to lower his outer Occlumency defences to one of an amateur, layering deceptive faux-memories and traps over the important things, the memoirs of happenings best not ever to be mentioned or noted, as well as significantly suppressing most of his Auror-born instincts, and finally smothering all his intense emotions towards a certain once-dead Headmaster.

Harry opened his eyes.

They stepped off the stone staircase and Mister Hooch rapped on the door. It opened silently and they entered. Mister Hooch told Harry to wait right then and the two stood in silence. Using this small lapse, he readied himself and portrayed the most non-suspicious character he could possibly be, without coming out as an incompetent josser.

It wouldn't do if he ever messed up, and had to pretend, "no, actually, I'm not _that _stupid," as a teenager was supposed to be.

After that thought, he looked up at the large and beautiful circular room, full of funny little noises from curious silver instruments on spindle-legged tables, whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke. Harry recalled what they were and sighed in relief, even though he hadn't needed to worry if this universe's timeline was the same as his own. The Savoir of the Wizarding World would not be in trouble until the 22nd of August, at the 422nd Quidditch World Cup final.

He looked to the walls, still littered with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were (fake-)snoozing gently in their frames. Harry's eyes suddenly caught onto a certain Headteacher.

Phineas Nigellus Black.

Harry frowned. Wasn't he in some sort of transgendered alternate reality? Then why was—

"Hello, Miss Potter, Mister Hooch. Would you like to explain what you two are doing here?"

In came the once-deceased Headteacher of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in bright purple robes and a starry, pointed hat. But, substituting the grandfatherly grey beard was a curtain of silvery hair in the longest braid Harry thought was possible as it skimmed the floors at the Headmas— _Headmistress' _front, as if mocking the facial hair it could have been with its immaculate hairs and excessive length.

But it was still Professor Dumbledore.

It was the simple details that bespoke of this: that very long and crooked nose that looked as if it had been broken twice, the slender and skilful fingers taut in muscle and bone, those familiar eyes holding an inner brilliance encased in a soul-piercing shade of blue that would eternally twinkle with kindness and mischief in peaceful times.

Even the unorthodox purple robes were the same—

"Umm, Professor?"

"Yes, my girl?" Calm and serene, as always.

Harry choked over that familiar (yet not) term, quickly adding, "I'm not a girl," before testing, "but I have to ask if those — err — shoes aren't a bit…"

What does one say to a _very_ elderly woman wearing six inch stiletto boots? …In electric pink?

…with purple polka-dots?

_Ma'am, I'm sorry to say I don't think that's proper footwear for someone your age, even if you're Supreme Mugwump and a slaughter of other titles. It's simply not _done_._

…Yeah. That'll blow over _so _well.

"You aren't? But Harriet, my— oh, dear me."

Suddenly Harry found himself staring into shining orbs filled with the swirling seas and starry skies, the abyss of oh-so-bright blue half-hidden behind half-moon spectacles that did not do a good job at suppressing the sapphire magnificence.

Or the obvious gentle prod of Legilimency.

Quickly smothering his instant instincts to raise his mental defences and hiding a few 'minor' details of his… circumstances, Harry allowed the Headmistress into his mind to skim those few hours here, some weeks in a brief first, second, and third-year there, some years in the Dursleys' hands with hidden hours poring over random magic books everywhere, when it'd been but a few moments in the corporeal world.

Harry was glad he had the mind to hide anything substantial from fourth-year onward. He knew any Dumbledore, male or female, would end up concocting some sort of _Plan_ with 'future' knowledge, in case the timeline 'here' was the same as his own.

So — he was now known to her as the Boy-Who-Lived with brief glimpse of magical tomes he'd read over later in life.

Except the Headmistress didn't know that. From what he'd exposed, Harry Potter was simply a more studious 14-year-old wizardling than the average Gryffindor.

"Ah. _Harry _Potter," said Headmistress Dumbledore as she gently stepped out of his mindscape, acknowledging with a small smile that Harry had lowered his 'mediocre' defences as, evidently, she hadn't felt the natural defences in most wizardkind minds as well.

Harry didn't say anything and simply stood, curious as to what the Headteacher would now do.

"Ah, Roland, you are free to go. I think I can take over this young wizard's… circumstances for now."

Harry only then noticed the slight twitch in the wizard's fingers, as if suppressing to fidget.

"But Headmistress! I haven't even explained — Wait. You can… oh yeah. Sorry. Hopefully I'll see you soon, Mr Potter!" Mister Hooch threw over his shoulder before he left the office with a swoop of his dark cloak and a suspicious hiccup.

Silence ensued.

"An alternate universe, my boy?" she said in a grandmotherly manner.

…It was kind of creepy.

Professor Dumbledore. A woman. Just as kind and just as eccentric — and probably just as manipulative. Harry was unsure whether he wanted to smother the Headteacher in hugs of grief and happiness and never let go, knowing her eventual sacrifice in the coming year, or perhaps throttle her, knowing what she would do to the Saviour of the Wizarding World for the sake of the _Greater Good_ as according to Plan.

That is, if these Dumbledores were that alike.

…which was still very likely.

"Yes. But I'm sure …_Harriet_ has just as many misadventures and rotten luck as I do." Harry paused from his thoughts. "The Philosopher's Stone and Chamber of Secrets incidents _did _happen right?"

Headmistress Dumbledore nodded, her silver braid swishing in time. "There was also the Sirina Black incident."

If Harry had been drinking something, he'd probably have sprayed it all over Fawkes elaborate stand. Sirius. Sirius was — …Wait.

Where _was_ Fawkes?

"Fawkes? Oh, he'll be back in—"

Suddenly the aforementioned phoenix burst into the room with crimson flame and soothing song, joy and wonder overriding all over Harry's mind and body without preamble. Beautiful red plumage was puffed out and more soft than Harry could remember as the young firebird found itself on his shoulder, smaller than the norm as if only a few years since a burning day, crooning with babyish affection for the stranger that wasn't.

Harry wasn't too sure if Fawkes even had a gender since he'd never even _seen _another phoenix except for him, and now Harry suspected the bird was somehow connected to his world if those eyes said anyth—

"Well… if that doesn't confirm that you aren't some Death Eater under Polyjuice Potion…" Harry could hear the soft smile in the sentence, which was quite strange, though, not really.

It _was _Dumbledore.

Even if female.

Harry then decided to point out that fact the Headmistress hadn't known. "Professor, Fawkes in my universe was male, but you _weren't_. Along with every witch or wizard I've met so far — _except for him."_

He pointed towards the portrait of a conveniently awakening ex-Headmaster Phineas Black.

"Pardon? Of _course _I could never be a woman!" the age-old wizard sputtered in red rage on highly aristocratic features. Harry was amused; the chair he sat in had a cat on the armrest, and it was fluffed up in a hissy fit.

"Hmm… strange," contemplated Professor Dumbledore, also with an amused glint in her eyes. She turned her blue gaze onto the ex-Headteacher Black. "Well, perhaps the Higher Beings just didn't have the courage to turn _the _Phineas Black into a witch. He'd certainly cause a right mess with the womanly qualities."

"Like a second Walburga Black most likely," mumbled Harry.

"Hmm, yes. Quite."

Harry paused. Blinked. Then turned over. "Wait, you had the misfortune of having…?"

Professor Dumbledore nodded solemnly.

Harry paused. "…My condolences."

He really did feel for them. Just thinking of Mrs Black's _portrait_… Harry stifled a shudder.

"Well, at least both universes were spared from two nasty Black witches!" said Professor Dumbledore brightly.

Harry nodded rapidly, "Yes — one is enough in my books, and I'll assume you too—"

"I'm _in the room _you two!"

The elder witch and young wizard laughed.

(It felt good to laugh again… even… no, _especially_ in Dumbledore's presence.)

"Well, onto a more serious note, would you care to tell me how you came to this world?" Headmistress Dumbledore asked with evident curiosity. "I was under the impression inter-dimensional transportation was impossible, considering most don't even believe that there are other alternate universes out there, even with the aid of magic and supernatural beings."

Harry frowned.

"Well, if I'm to be honest, I was sure I'd _died_. Please don't ask me how," he quickly tacked on, knowing Professor Dumbledore would be asking _how_why_whenwhere_who?! — especially when dealing with the Boy-Who-Lived, a wizard who, in all matters and circumstances, should have survived to his hundredth birthday at the latest in these peaceful times.

Heck, just a fourteen year old Hogwarts student in general should've been able to live that long!

"Oh. Well, that is quite the complication. I would have thought, perhaps, you'd at least have come upon some sort of contraption from an Unspeakable or some other, or perhaps enacted a powerful spell the wrong way — really, anything that was or supposed to be ambiguously helpful — but if you'd _died _as you say…" the Headmistress began stroking her beard— hair — _braided hair _— at her front in a familiar, thoughtful way as she stared past somewhere above Harry's left ear.

"Yes. I've already understood that I'm pretty much stuck here. For good? I'm not sure either."

Headmistress Dumbledore sighed softly. "I'm sorry, my boy. I would gladly help out and research a way back for you, but the Dark Lord Voldemort, I fear, will be putting forth his move ...very soon. My gut is usually never wrong, you see. However, I'll be sure to use my spare time to help, and perhaps we can enact the help from another—"

"No. I'm sorry, Professor, but I really don't think it's a good idea to let anyone else know that I'm here. You know, these portraits know, and that's good enough for me. Besides," Harry shrugged, "I'm dead. I may as well live for a good while because, once I'm sent back, I'll probably immediately go on to my… next great adventure."

Professor Dumbledore nodded. "Ah, yes. I believe that is one of my own quotes, Mr Potter."

Harry let out an amused breath. "It is." Suddenly a thought occurred to him. "Wait, if I'm to stay here, where will I—"

"Oh, I don't mind if you stay here, my boy. It's quite lonely in this castle in the summer when most of the other professors are out, and it'll only be for a month before school starts. I'll be sure to introduce you if any come back early," suggested Professor Dumbledore with a cheerful clap and smile.

"You'll let me attend Hogwarts?" exclaimed Harry.

"Why, of course," Professor Dumbledore smiled. "In fact…" She pulled out her wand — the _Elder wand _— (_Was it a copy? Was his the copy? Why were his fingers twitching? Why was he feeling so_—) and swished a good few times in intricate directions.

Then all of a sudden, a letter was in Harry's hand.

**HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY**

**Headmistress: Albia Dumbledore**  
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Mage,  
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

**Albia Percilla Wulfilde Briar Dumbledore  
Headmistress**

_Post Script,_

_No need to actually send an owl, Mr Potter, if you wish to simply answer through vocal means in the office at the very moment._

Hadrian blinked. Repeatedly. Seeing and acknowledging this alternate universe gender-switch thing was actually quite different, and now with this evidence… Well, this was a bit much. Harry had never thought _Constant Vigilance_ and _Expect the Unexpected_ would have gone this far. Especially, when mentally reviewing the Auror Guidelines, while still staring at the Professor's name and contemplating exactly not just where he was but the _when_ of where he was ...He really had the urge to weep.

Why did all this adventure have to happen to _him?_ Did he really anger so many people in his past life—

...Well, technically ...now that he thought of it, he _did_ actually anger a lot of people... not deliberately, and really, they were all up against him _first _and they were kind of in an almost-war and running for their _lives_ to help defeat Snakeface and his… entire…—

In a strangled voice, he managed evenly, "Doesn't the Deputy Headmistress write these?"

"Why, yes. Ordinarily. But I believe you are a unique case, Mr Potter." She paused, her brows rising in query. "And it's Deputy Head_master_ Mercury McGonagall, not…?"

"Minerva. She goes by Minerva McGonagall in my world."

"Oh, well isn't that a pretty name. The adjacent goddess to Mercury if I recall…" It was obvious what else Professor Dumbledore wished to say, and Harry took a moment to relish the fact he could now read the once enigmatic Dumbledore (even if female) so well.

"You don't suppose you could tell me…?"

"You were named Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," answered Harry with a small smile.

"…that's quite…" Professor Dumbledore frowned — no, _pouted_, "…boring. Couldn't my father name me something with a bit more… flair? The middle names are all well and fun, but really, naming me after the country of Albion instead of the idol figure _of _Albion would have been far better…"

"Wouldn't that be a burden, Professor? Naming yourself," Harry said amusedly, "after Merlin?"

"Well, I suppose when you put it that way…" Suddenly Professor Dumbeldore straightened, as if a thought had unceremoniously dropped onto her head like a mushy snowball. "Oh! How are we going to place you in a Hogwarts House? It wouldn't do to have a private Sorting Ceremony, since you'll never be introduced like the norm, but it'd also be quite strange to plank the Sorting Hat onto you with the other first-years… No, no… this simply won't do…"

"I could just not attend you know," Harry pointed out.

Headmistress Dumbledore narrowed her eyes sternly. "Pardon? Of course you must! To _not_ attend — do you have any idea what the media, what my colleagues, what my _conscience _will say, if I did not enrol a magical child who hadn't completed their education? It'll be nightmare! It's only proper for a boy your age, not even of legal age, Boy-Who-Lived …or well, _died… _or not!"

"Alright, alright!" replied Harry, wide-eyed and hands raised in defence. He found it quite odd that the professor was actually acting like a close… almost _familial _grandmother instead of the mysterious, omnipotent and omnipresent grandfather back in his world.

It was debateable whether this was a good thing or not…

"How about I do a private Sorting Ceremony and then just greet as many of my soon-to-be housemates at the Start-of-Term Feast?" suggested Harry.

Professor Dumbledore blinked before beaming quite sunnily. "Why, that's a brilliant idea, my boy!"

With that said, Headmistress Dumbledore strolled over to her enormous, claw-footed desk, the high heels of her boots snapping like bullets as she sidestepped to the shelf behind it where a shabby, tattered wizard's hat sat.

The Sorting Hat.

* * *

**_Author's Notes_****: **And I'm accidentally writing about each genderbent character one-by-one per 'breakage'. Will wonders never cease?

And about Roland Hooch's less-than-admirable personality… well, we don't exactly _know _much about Hooch in the canon, since her persona's not really shown in depth, and I ended up making _my_ Hooch a bit of a bird-brain drunk. Accidentally. I just let the character write themselves, y'know? Even if Dumbledore ended up too likeable than I should've written him/her as… Yeah. They'll all be sorta OOC since… well. Genderbent. Plus… other stuff, depending on whether this's gonna be a serious story or a humorous one. Just try imagining the story in the other's peoples' point-of-view. Everyone's thought processes can vary, and though it seems like random bursts of character-change... they're all strung together. Somehow. That's how I write: by thought-process in everyone's vantage if I were to write the story from not just Harry's viewpoint.

...Woah. I just realized I wrote more than double the amount of last chapter's wordcount.

That, and my sweet sixteen is in seven days! _Yay!_

**_Post Script_****:** When picturing Headmistress Dumbledore's hair, think of Retsu Unohana's braid from the manga _Bleach _by Tite Kubo_ — _only silver and much thicker and much,_much _more long. (Floor-length. Beard. _Duh_.)


End file.
